


Curiously Strong

by zetsubonna



Series: Articles of Partnership [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Dominance, Food Kink, Light Bondage, M/M, Non-Sexual Submission, Sensation Play, Submission, Temperature Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-05-04 16:57:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5341574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zetsubonna/pseuds/zetsubonna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fieldbears asked: At the risk of sounding self-involved I am still REALLY REALLY HUNG UP on the non-verbal sub!Matt with loving-dom(what-other-kind-could-he-be?)!Foggy. And you would probably be amazing at it soooooooooo</p>
            </blockquote>





	Curiously Strong

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chaya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaya/gifts).



Peppermint oil smells like cold. He knows it's peppermint oil, it's overwhelming, it almost burns it smells so cold up close. It drowns things out, other smells, heat, the only thing Matt can hear over the smell of the peppermint is the fan. He can barely make out Foggy's breath.

"Too much?" Foggy asks, and Matt shakes his head no.

Foggy leaves the open bottle of peppermint oil in front of the fan. It doesn't oscillate, so there's no gap, Matt's blanketed in smell. It's so thick, he feels like he's choking on it. He tries breathing through his mouth, but he can taste it, and then Foggy runs an ice cube across his lips and Matt sucks in air as the water trickles into his mouth from the ice.

Foggy's endlessly patient. He kneels on the floor over Matt's head. The ice goes all the way around Matt's mouth until Matt relaxes it into a soft 'o,' and still Foggy doesn't stop. His fingers must be cold, is the thought that drifts through Matt's head, but he doesn't make a sound, doesn't say a word, just keeps icing Matt's mouth.

When the cube is three-quarters melted, Foggy lets it slide down Matt's tongue, and Matt has to close his mouth to catch it so he won't choke.

"Suck," Foggy says. It's gentle, but it's not a suggestion. Matt sucks. "Swallow." The cold goes down Matt's throat with his saliva. There's more ice, wet ice, from a bucket. It tastes like distilled water, frozen in a silicone tray, not tap water from the ice maker. He tries to taste the shape. The peppermint oil is distracting. Foggy sees the furrow in his brow and taps it, the scolding implicit.

It isn't a cube. It's not a trapezoid prism, either, it's an irregular rectangle, it's-

"It's a cake," Foggy says. "Stop thinking."

Matt tries not to smile. Foggy pushes the second cube of ice into his mouth and turns up the fan to diffuse the peppermint oil further. He taps Matt's forehead again.

"Stop thinking," he says again. Matt tries. Foggy's breath is still there, but he can barely hear it over the fan. The peppermint is cold. The ice is cold. The floor is hard. Foggy's got him laying on a jersey cotton sheet on three yoga mats. It's flat, still, but there's the tiniest give in it. The ice melts across his tongue.

Foggy turns the fan back down, somewhere in the middle. The smell gets thick again, thick enough to drown out most of Matt's thoughts, like a jackhammer on his nerves. White noise, Foggy had said he was going for, and then-

Matt smells something different. It's hinting under the peppermint, it's-

Foggy breathes gently on Matt's face. He's a good foot overhead, almost two. Cinnamon?

Foggy's mouth grazes Matt's forehead.

Cinnamon fucking Altoids. Foggy's mouth is like a brand. Matt sucks in air and Foggy breathes right into his mouth. Matt's fingers curl where his hands are tied to the rings he had Foggy drill into the floor.

Everything else is cold. There's peppermint in the air and ice in his mouth, the chilly breeze from the fan pushing the cold of the AC over Matt's bare skin. Foggy licks Matt's bottom lip and his saliva is hot. Snickering quietly, Foggy licks the end of Matt's nose. All he can smell on Foggy's breath is the cinnamon. He hasn't eaten anything else in hours, hasn't drank anything but water. It makes Matt ache all over for reasons he can't put to words because the peppermint and ice and chilly air is making it hard to concentrate.

"I ain't sucking you off like this," Foggy assures him. "I looked it up."

Matt envisions that fire searing the head of his cock and his breath hitches.

"Tongue," Foggy demands. Matt hesitates, but complies after a few moments.

Foggy's chin brushes the tip of Matt's nose in the second or two before he licks the middle of Matt's tongue and gives him the barest share of that warmth.

"In," Foggy says.

Matt draws his tongue in and lets the warmth spread across the top of his mouth. His breathing is regular again after a moment, and then Foggy demands it again.

There’s more, this time. Foggy lingers, upside down, his chin is soft enough that Matt wonders if he had his face waxed. He wouldn’t put it past him, Foggy would do that, if he wanted to make sure Matt wasn’t going to be distracted by-

“In,” Foggy orders. His voice is so gentle, he sounds like he’s trying to coax a baby, but Matt doesn’t argue, doesn’t negotiate. He pulls his tongue back into his mouth and lets the cinnamon sear his soft palate, counting to fifty by twos.

“You’re going to eat one,” Foggy says. “Suck it until you can chew it.”

Matt’s face tenses. He can feel it, he whines. Foggy thumps his forehead again- not hard, just a reprimand.

“You’re going to eat one,” Foggy repeats.

Matt hates Altoids, but everything is so cold-

Foggy puts it on his lips and he takes it in with his tongue. It’s _fire_. It _hurts_. Matt tries to fix it by sucking in air, but that just spreads the heat across his tongue until he can scarcely feel the fan or smell the peppermint.

Matt pushes it into his teeth, tries to crack it. It’s too hard. It doesn’t even chip.

“Too much?” Foggy asks. He only sounds a little concerned. Matt’s face flushes. Foggy hasn’t pushed him like this yet. He’s asked Matt so many questions, trying to feel out the limits, trying to establish what’s okay and what isn’t. Matt tried not to give any, tried not to admit he had any. Taste is one of Matt’s weaknesses. Taste is smell, but _inside_ his head, so it’s a hundred times more intense.

He tries to bite down again. His eyes are watering. Matt knows Foggy’s watching him, watching the shine of the tears in his lashes. He shakes his head no.

Foggy runs his fingers through Matt’s hair. “Then cry, if you need to,” he says, perfectly resolute. “You’re still going to eat it.”

Matt’s toes curl. His nails bite into his palms. Foggy kisses his forehead. His lips are paper-dry and a little scratchy. Chapped.

“You’re going to eat five of them,” Foggy explains, low and deliberate. Matt can feel his stomach twitching. “When you’re done, if you’re good, I’ll let you fuck me.”

Matt lifts his eyebrow. Tries biting down again. Fucking thing still won’t crack. Tears are streaming down toward his ears.

“You finish. You don’t throw up,” Foggy explains. He pauses, and Matt’s lips twitch. He would be smiling, if Foggy weren’t making him eat coals. “I’m going to go into your room and get the lube and the condoms out of the drawer. If you can think your way past the peppermint and the cinnamon, I’ll be on the couch.”

Foggy’s the best and the worst at the same time. Matt moans like he’s aching, even though his cock isn’t even hard yet. Too many things going on. It’s definitely awake, though.

“It’s not going to be a thing I do every time,” Foggy warns. “Don’t expect it. Just figured you ought to earn something big, the first time.”

Foggy settles the second one just under Matt’s bottom lip as he gets up.

Matt listens to Foggy’s footsteps as the first Altoid finally cracks, splinters of burning creeping into the corners of his teeth. Four to go.

Foggy’s back by the time Matt’s used his tongue to pull the second into his mouth.

“Next time,” Foggy tells him, placing the third. “Three Fireballs.”

Matt’s face scrunches and Foggy taps his forehead when the third Altoid slips and falls into the hollow of his throat.

“Just wait,” Foggy assures him, settling into the couch with a confident creak. “Fresh minced garlic, pickled ginger, peppermint oil boba- we’ll work our way up.”

Matt’s breath shudders as Foggy lets the tin of mints clink on the arm of the couch. He hadn’t heard it open. He hears the lube bottle click, and wonders if he’ll get that far.


End file.
